Marching Band Tales
by aelwyn
Summary: A collection of extremely random short stories about marching band. How Dr. Beat was born! And don't give your band Mountain Dew, whatever you do (it rhymes). UPDATED! The tale of the Immortal Tuba.
1. Dr Beat: The Evil Beginnings

Hey! It's a rainy Sunday night and I'm bored... so I decided to write a few random tales about marching band stuff. Haha, maybe I should hand these out to my band. I'm sure they'll have fun with them. Anywho, here's one story. It's about Dr. Beat... I'm sure you all know who that is. -shudders- One of my most memoriable (but not in a good way) experiences involves my band director and Dr. Beat attached to a megaphone on full blast. Whee. We were all very twitchy for the rest of the week.  
  
Disclaimer: Dr. Beat = not mine.  
  
THE CREATION OF DR. BEAT  
  
There once stood a forest, far away from all civilization. It was rumored to be haunted by dark spirits, however these rumors were quite unfounded, since no one would dare to enter the forest for fear it was true.  
  
It was known, however, that a twisted old man lived in the deepest, blackest, more horrible part of the woods. None of your typical "happy" forest creatures such as deer and rabbits lived there. It was instead infested with wolves and bears, evil badgers and rats the size of a trombone. All of these creatures fed on one another, and it came to be that they all grew apart in their mistrust for one another, and became immortal. The twisted old man who resided with these animals once knew them all as friends, but as they all in turn became malicious and mistrustful, so did the man.   
  
He build himself a hut, which he dubbed the "Palace of the Evergreen Forest". It was not at all a palace, but an old shed made of rotting oak and stinking lichen. Inside he stored his handmade furniture, and a large gray tablet. He would write upon it everyday, making plans to take over the world with an army of devious forest creatures. The man would become overexcited when he visualized it: black bears like mammoths, crushing houses; snarling wolves biting off heads. It was all in all a very violent plan, but he knew it would never be horrible enough. For all the pain fangs and claws and poisonous bites might cause, they would never harm the ears. He began to make a plan to conquer the country, the continent, the earth. Sitting in front of the pewter tablet everyday he would sketch out plans, until one day, he came up with the perfect one.  
  
Before him rested a drawing in chalk of a metal machine, the size of your hand. It had buttons, a digital screen, and a speaker. Out of which would come the most horrendous, mind-breaking noise ever known to man. Dr. Beat was born.  
  
He quickly built it up (don't ask me how). Eager for a chance to test it, he glanced out the window and saw a poor, lost little bunny wabbit. It was looking quite scared as it chewed on some clover, its eyes darting about nervously, aware for signs of danger. The twisted old man slipped outside, put in some ear plugs, and hit the On button.   
  
The poor baby bunny wabbit dropped dead instantly.  
  
Blah blah blah, time goes on. The man invaded a local town and killed all. However, he was injured in the act and was forced to listen to Dr. Beat without his ear plugs. Thinking he was immune to the horror he had created, he didn't bother to worry. But, within minutes his ears had shriveled up. "NOOO!" he screamed, but all was silent. Everyone was already dead, and the nearest living being was nearly ten miles away (Dr. Beat has a great range). The man was soon reduced to a pile of dust. The wind picked up, and he blew away into the sky above his old home, the dark forest, the place of doom and the invention of dark devises.  
  
Dr. Beat ticked on. 


	2. A Big Mistake

A Big Mistake  
  
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It was a beautiful, sunny, hot day. Good for picnics, bad for marching band practice. You know those days. The ones where the director comes out of his office, annoyingly cheerful, and says, "What a wonderful day! I'm so eager to begin practicing! Come on guys, let's backmarch at a really fast tempo for a really long time!" Everyone's soon grumpy and tired of marching around in the heat, holding up their sweaty instruments. Each section was complaining about how their instrument was the hardest to march with.  
  
"OUR'S is the worst," said a flutist, "We have to hold ours straight up in the air, sideways. You guys think YOU have it hard! All you do is hold it out straight. Easy!"  
  
"Yeah," shot back a saxophone player, "But our's are MUCH heavier. So we win. You lose."  
  
The band director was tired of all the bickering. "Come on guys, I have a treat for you all!"  
  
The entire band was a bit suspicious, since 'treats' from band directors usually involve strange CDs with scary music ("It's baaaaaaaaaannnnnddd-tastic!"), or being told about a 62432 mile long parade the band will be marching in next week. Backwards. With lots of steep hills. Because backmarching is the devil.  
  
He disappeared into the school, which was a bit weird, since you should never trust band geeks alone. They end up having "I can blare louder than you!" contests which disturb the neighbors and result in many complaints, or planning a revolution against the drum major or the flute section or something.  
  
But he was back within a few seconds, with a cooler, and was soon forcing cans of Mountain Dew on everyone.   
  
A big mistake.  
  
Within a few minutes, the cans had been opened and were half gone. Some were having guzzling contests, others were having Mountain Dew splash fights, and the rest were just plain hyper.   
  
"I know!" said the sousaphone player, "I'll be a piccolo for today!"  
  
The saxophones were having races to see how could skip around the track the fastest, while juggling their instruments.  
  
A trumpet fell off the top row of the bleachers. How it got up there, and what it was doing, nobody knows. Its owner ran after it, laughing madly, clutching his can of Mountain Dew. He picked it up and began playing a drunken version of the school alma mater. The rest of the trumpet players joined in, all playing it in different key signatures, resulting in a horrible sound.  
  
It was too much for the drum major, who fainted.  
  
The rest of the band grabbed the drum major and hauled him off into the woods.  
  
And this is why you never give a band Mountain Dew.  
  
I've been there.  
  
And it's not pretty.  
  
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Wheeeee! 


	3. The Immortal Tuba: Part I of III

**The Immortal Tuba: Part I of II**

Reighsly was a small town. It had exactly four streets, the main being Reighs Road. Located on Reighs Road was the town hall, library, post office, a few small stores, the old abandoned train station, two pubs, and the high school, called Reighsly High. Reighsly High was known for miles for its marching band, the Reighsly Ruffians.

The legend of the Ruffians was strong: they had yet to not place in a competition, their marching skills were superb, and the music they place was catchy and rarely had any mistakes. The trust they had in each other was deep and true.

This year their program was entitled, "Tales of Scotland". The band had only just finished band camp, and yet they had it entirely memorized. In fact, the band director was almost tempted to say it was flawless.

Nothing could go wrong.

At their first competition, they blew everyone else away. Spectators watched, with looks of stun upon their faces, as the band moved together, uniform with one another, leaving them with tears in their eyes from their heartfelt, moving performance. As the drum major stepped forward to receive the trophy at the end, the audience rose up together in a standing ovation. The Reighsly Ruffians grinned at one another happily, slapping high fives, pulling smuggled Mountain Dew out of their uniforms. The band director stood slightly apart from the rest of them, a look of fierce pride upon his face.

Afterwards, the Ruffians marched toward their bus. They stopped together at a call from the drum major and proceeded to load their instruments. Extra care was taken with the sousaphone, but not too much. You never know what others might think.

The return trip was joyous. The seniors had been through many victories, but the feeling never wears off. Laughing, they joked together and changed out of their uniforms, hanging them on hangers and tossing them all into an empty seat.

Well, they thought it was empty. After hearing a few peeps of surprise, they pulled everything away and found a small freshman nestled in among the scarlet uniforms and various flute cases.

"Sorry," they said.

But the freshman was apparently used to it. "That's okay."

After arriving back at the school, the entire band helped unload and return everything back into the band room. But something was wrong. The small freshman noticed it first, but being afraid of the shocked looks he would receive if he should tell, decided to remain quiet and go inside to lock up his instrument.

It turned out to be a junior trombone player who noticed it.

"WE'RE RUINED!" he shouted.

A few people stared. "Uh… what?" They all looked very confused, and as more people gathered to give odd looks at the trombonist, a crowd began to form.

"What's going on here?" the band director yelled, noticing the commotion. "Excuse me, coming through…" He began to push through the crowd, glancing around at the looks of panic growing on more and more faces.

He arrived at the scene, the end of the open instrument truck, and stopped. Staring, he turned around. "He's right. We _are_ ruined."

Mass pandemonium broke out. "I can't believe it!" people shouted. The small freshman returned outside and was quickly overwhelmed in the frightened crowd.

The Reighsly Ruffians' secret to success was missing.

The silver sousaphone was gone.

Within a week, ads had been posted everywhere, announcing a reward for the return of the school's sousaphone. The entire band was distraught, and the band director cancelled their future competitions. Other bands began to criticize him, asking him why he couldn't just buy another sousaphone.

"Uh… we can't afford it right now," he said nervously, hoping no one remembered that the school had just bought seven new cellos for the orchestra and had plenty left over.

The sousaphone in question was very old. It was full of dings and had been through many falls in the mud. People wondered why anyone would want such a thing, let alone steal it.

The band director had another idea.

Someone knows, he mused silently one day. Someone knows what that sousaphone _is_.

_To be continued! Second half will be in the next chapter._


	4. The Immortal Tuba: Part II of III

**The Immortal Tuba: Part II of III**

Oh, wow, thanks to all my reviewers. I had no idea this would inspire that much interest. Well, here's the second part… yes, I know. I have a confession: it's not done yet. I just realized that it's longer than I expected at first, and so there's still a third to go. Sorry.

ShinyK: Lol, no. Actually, I'm a flutist. I just like to make fun of myself a lot, and I suppose that was my way of doing it. Don't ask. I'm weird like that.

* * *

Seventy-six miles away, hidden in a barn colored with peeling red paint, sat a masked man next to a large black case. The straw he was sitting in was itchy, and beginning to aggravate his allergies. He sneezed twice. 

Damn this straw, he thought miserably, damn this whole entire stupid plan.

The man had been inside that barn since dawn broke that morning, snacking on various food items he had stored in his backpack, napping for short intervals at a time. One might think him homeless but he knew better.

And after he got this thing sold on one of those online auction sites that kept popping up all over the place, he knew he'd be far from homeless.

As soon as the sun began to set, he packed up everything he had, including the wrappers from his dinner. He checked three times to make sure that nothing was left behind, then began to kick around the straw on the ground, trying to make it look as natural as possible.

Good... he thought, Good.

The hay bales were scattered haphazardly in the corner, and there was a row of leather bridles hanging on pegs against a wall. It looked completely natural, as a barn should.

No one would know.

* * *

Several months passed by and autumn faded into a bitter, cold winter. The Reighsly Marching Ruffians were crushed, as no one had reported any information at all about their missing sousaphone. Though marching season was now over, the band director called an emergency practice after school one uneventful Thursday. 

"Hello, all," he greeted them dully as they filed in around him, settling upon the band room floor. "I believe it's time to declare our old friend missing for good."

Sighs and groans of rage sounded from all of the band members.

"But, Mr. P" a trumpet player ejected loudly, before being cut off.

"We've done all we can." He sighed resignedly and continued. "Posters have been put up everywhere. The police have been alerted. I've checked with local band directors. _I even put up a notice on the internet, for crying out loud_. There's nothing else to be done. I suppose I'll have to look to investing in a new sousaphone."

The band looked downcast at this final announcement. Shocked, the band director continued. "It's not as bad as it seems."

The flute section leader spoke up. "Yes it is. How will we ever…?" Her voice was quickly overwhelmed by shouts of protests.

"Next year will be our first"

"I can't believe"

"Are you serious?"

"We're all doomed!"

"no hope for us ever again!"

At this last statement the small freshman stood up. However, this made very little impact. He instead pulled over a chair and stood on it, looking down at his fellow band members. "Hold on!" he shouted.

Everyone stopped clamoring and gazed up at him curiously. Even compared to your average freshman, this kid was abnormally quiet. Only a few of them had actually ever heard him talk before.

"I-I think you all have the w-wrong idea," he said tremulously, watching the others around him exchange looks of skepticism. "This isn't band."

Someone from the back of the room began to shout. "What? Are you" He was quickly cut off.

"Let the kid speak!"

The little freshman spoke again. "Just because we don't have that magic sousa— I mean, j-just because we don't have the old s-sousaphone doesn't mean we can't win ever again."

But the band refused to hear him out. He leaped down from his chair, disappointed,as the band was dismissed.

* * *

NEXT CHAPTER: Part III/III of the Immortal Tuba  
COMING SOON: What if your band director was really an alien in disguise?  
AND AFTER THAT (or maybe before, who knows?): Something about a band advice column.


End file.
